


His Queen of Hearts

by BlackIris



Series: Fucking February 2018 [18]
Category: Alice In Wonderland - Lewis Carroll, Once Upon a Time (TV), Once Upon a Time in Wonderland (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fucking February 2018, Minor Injuries, Reader-Insert, Swearing, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 22:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13727586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackIris/pseuds/BlackIris
Summary: Fucking February 2018Day 18: Fluff





	His Queen of Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been wanting to write for Jefferson for a while, and then this story took over my brain. Evidently Jefferson wanted to come out and play - this is much longer than I intended it to be.  
> Un-beta'd enjoy!

You’ve known Jefferson a long time, well, ever since you had to expand your parlor and move locations. 

He was the first to great you and help you get acquainted with the other shop owners on the block. His bright smile and dedication to his craft caught your eye right away. It didn’t help either that his gem toned faux Victorian fashion sense bleed from this handcrafted clothing line into, well, everything about him. That paired with his dark humor and perpetual sass, he was shaping up to be one of your favorite things about your new location. 

His oddity and darkness complimented yours. Something you were grateful for: not everyone wanted the shop next to theirs to be a tattoo parlor – even one as nice as yours. The walls you painted a steely gray, the color of a perfect storm, you’d like to say. Crushed velvet chairs and sofa of a deep purple made a small waiting room near the front of your space. Framed metal band posters, composers’ portraits, and modern mythical paintings adorned the walls. Black crystal chandeliers hung from your ceiling – you proudly installed them yourself late one night. 

That was the night Jefferson started to fall for you without even knowing it. You had lit many candles throughout your shop, making good use of your several candelabras, before shutting the power off to your shop. You were certain you could do it all yourself, but even in the candle light, you could barely see which wires were which. Thinking you might have to wait till morning to finish, you heard music from next door. Jefferson, you thought, he could maybe help. 

You knocked on his shop door, holding up some cake with a smile when he looked up to see who could possibly be calling at this late hour. 

A smile graces his lips as he moved to unlock the door to let you in. 

“(Y/N).”

“Jefferson.” 

“What’s up, why do you look guilty? You don’t have a body you need me to help hide, do you?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and stepping into his shop when he moves to let you in. 

“No, I don’t think we’re there yet.” You wink, your tired determination fueling your courage. “I was planning on bribing you with cake though.” 

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Kinda need you to be my bitch and hold a flash light for me while I finish putting up my chandeliers.” 

He eyes you down. “Just tell me one thing.” 

“Okay.”

“What kind of cake is it?”

“Red velvet.”

He hums, picking up a top hat he was working on, twirling it before placing in on his head. “Guess I’m your bitch then.” 

You smile brightly, nodding to the door. He followes you over, and helped hold the chandelier while you climbed back up the ladder. Stretching to adjust the wires, your cropped shirt rides up even higher, showing off the various swirls and flowers inked into the skin of your stomach. His mouth hung open as he tried to memorize the site before him, causing the beam of light to lower. 

“A little higher, please. I promise I’m almost done.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.. gorgeous..” he mumbles. 

“What?” You look down to him, confusion written on your brow, not fully hearing his words.

“Sorry, I.. got an idea for a design, I think..”

“From holding a flash light?” You quip, tucking the last of the wires back into the mounting box. “You’re really weirder than I imagined.” 

You smile down at him after the chandelier was secured. Taking his offered hand, he helps you down ladder. 

“You’d be surprised at the things that inspire me.” 

\-----

From then on, your friendship only grew. Your hours at work tended to over lap and extend late into the night. You’d both spend many nights drinking tea, talking of muses, wild dreams, and lands you wished to visit. 

One night you show each other your sketch books, each one filled with half baked ideas, sketches, and textures. His of flowering, blossoming designs, fabric swatches, and mock color palettes. Yours of gothic trimmings, roses, and vintage instruments. 

Jefferson’s eyes are glued to your sketch book as he flips through it; he’s constantly making various sighs and awes. His noises remind you of the countless times he’s told you how much he loves your tattoos. Both the ones you create and the one you have. Complimenting the many floral designs that cover your body, from the irises on your hip, to the carnations on your ankle, to the roses on your chest from the goddess herself, Kat von D. He asked you once why flowers. You had smiled kindly to his question, saying that with work you didn’t have time for a proper garden, so you decided you would be your own garden, and by God your flowers would never wilt. 

You’re roused from your day dreaming of that time long ago, when you realize he’s been rather quiet beside you. Looking to see what’s piqued or destroyed his interest you see him in awe of a sketch, nearly petting the page. 

“Jefferson, you okay?”

“These are my scissors, aren’t they?” 

Scooting closer to him, you look over his shoulder to see the page he has open of your book. “Yep. You know I love the details of them.” 

You try to shrug it off, but the fact that he couldn’t seem to tear himself away from the drawing has you rather proud. The scissors in question were a personal favorite of his many collected vintage scissors. 

“This is it. This is the one.”

“The one what?” 

“The one I want.”

You laugh at his words, “You already have them. They’re your scissors, babe. Maybe you really have gone as mad as a hatter.” 

He puts your sketch book down, with a dramatic sigh. “That’s not what I mean, babe.” He says mockingly emphasizing the last word, rolling up the sleeve of his crisp black button up, revealing the blank canvas of his right forearm. “I want it. Right. Here.” He taps his arm with each word for furthered emphasis. 

“Jefferson.” You try to scold him but your smile gives away your excitement. His body is a pure blank slate, free of tattoos and piercings, a direct contrast to yours. He always said he preferred to show his creativity through his designs and collections, and the occasional use of eye liner. You had already been past the point of wondering when or, more likely, if he’d want a tattoo from you or one of the talented artists that worked under your roof. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. The more I look at your work, the more I know I want some of your art, but I could never put my finger on what. Not until this. Please? Will you? For me?” 

You shake your head, rolling your eyes, but your smile is still bright. “I suppose.” You open your small planner and flip through it. “I have an opening on Tuesday. Or we can wait till next week.” 

“Can you do it now?” 

“I love your enthusiasm. But, fuck, you need to breath a moment and think about this.” 

“What is there to think about? I trust you and I love you – your work.” He corrects, quickly tacking the words on, trying his best to play it off as a small stutter. 

Your stomach does a small flip that you will yourself to ignore. “Tuesday, then, my dear Jefferson.” You take a purple highlighter and block out the last half of your day, before elegantly scrolling his name over it. Showing him as you snap the cap back onto the pen. “Does this please you?” 

“It’ll have to do till Tuesday.” He beams a wicked smile at you. “This calls for a toast.”

“A toast?”

“Of course, you’re finally leaving your mark on me.” He winks, going to his back room 

“Are you fucking serious?” you yell at his retreating form.

He returns with a champagne bottle and glasses, scoffing, “I thought we were having a moment. Do you not want champagne?”

“When have I ever said no to champagne?” You ask, eyeing the orange label. “It’s the good stuff isn’t it?” 

“You know that’s all I allow in my store.” 

“Besides that swill you call vodka.” 

“Stoli is just a hang up from a past life, darling, you know that.” Jefferson pops open the champagne, “Besides you didn’t seem to mind last Friday.” 

“Or I have a weakness for things that aren’t good for me.”

“Maybe just sweet things,” he hands you a glass, raising his. “To your art!”

“To your arm!” 

\-----

Tuesday comes and Jefferson’s in your office, bouncing on his toes, waiting for you 45 minutes before his appointment. 

“You’re lucky my consultation cancelled on me. You ready?” 

“As ever.” 

“Okay. Normally I make my clients wait out there, while I work on the outline, but since you’re more than a client, I’ll allow you to stay.” 

“Hmm, more than a client?” 

Pulling out the papers and pens you need you give him an unimpressed look. “I honestly figured it was only a matter of time until my best friend became a client as well.” 

His breath hitches as you take his arm. “Now, show me how big and where.” 

He points to and circles the area, indicating what you’ve asked. “I’m your best friend now? You really ought to get better friends, (Y/N).” 

“I don’t normally use that term, but I trust you more than anyone. I don’t really know what to call you.” You mumble, as you work on making the sketch for the outline the right proportions. 

“You don’t know what to call me?” He chuckles, darkly, “I would say you could call me whatever you like, but Jefferson is just fine, for now.” 

“You know what I mean, you ass.” You shake your head playfully. “Here?” you reconfirm the location on his arm. 

He nods. “What brought this up?”

“Some of the guys have been giving me a hard time about how much time we spend together, and then with you showing up early..” 

“And you didn’t put them in their place? That’s not like you, (Y/N). What’s wrong, you have a fever?” 

“Oh, I gave them a hard time back. Don’t you worry.” You sighed, “I just don’t want them saying that shit to you.” 

“To me? You really think those talented idiots can get to me? Ruffle my feathers? Babe, it’s gonna take a lot more than that to upset me. I’ve got thick skin. Couldn’t give a shit about ‘em.” 

“Good.” You motioned for him to sit. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine my mad man, you ready? You know this isn’t licked on by kittens.”

“I know, I’m ready.” 

You work on Jefferson’s skin, asking on occasion of if he needs to take a break. He never does, and stays as still as a seasoned client. It was impressive. When you finish you let him admire his newly decorated arm. Telling him how to clean and care for it. 

“Though I know if you have any questions, it won’t be that bad, it’s not like I don’t see you almost every day.” 

“True, I might just have you wrap it for me though.” 

“Don’t be a lazy ass,” you chuckle. “Besides, if you decide you want more, I’m not going to be constantly taking care of you.” 

“But it’s hard!” He mockingly pouts.

You lightly shove his shoulder. “You wanna get out of here? Get some food?” 

“Hell yes, I’m starting. Thai?”

“You’re always starving.” 

\-----

It’s been several months since Jefferson’s first tattoo. He takes to keeping his sleeves rolled up to his elbows now, wanting to show it off as much as possible. He even managed to convince you to let him have the original sketch and have it framed. It sits proudly in his show room. 

He hasn’t shown you any of his new sketches in ages, and keeps working later and later. A habit that makes you worry for his fracturing sanity. It was one thing for you to work late into the evening as that’s a very common thing for a tattoo artist. Not entirely the same can be said for a clothing designer that has early morning hours too. Your worry peaks when you realize he hasn’t left his shop for two days in a row, working well into the night, and sleeping, you imagine, on his small sofa. 

Knocking on the door, well past midnight, you know he’s up, but he doesn’t come to your calling. 

“Jefferson! Open up! I have food!” 

“We’re closed!” Comes a muffled yell, from a voice you know far too well. 

Growling at how stubborn he can be, you walk around the block to the alley door. It’s the only door he gave you a key to. And if he’s not coming out, you’re going in. 

Opening the door, and repocketing the keys, you look around at the chaos of the dimly lit back room. Bolts of fabric are strewn everywhere, there’s half of a sewing machine on the floor with a large mallet used for grommets sticking out of it. Half empty spools of thread litter the floor, causing you to shuffle your feet on occasion to not trip. 

Nearing his larger work room, you hear muffled cursing. You take in a deep breath before going in. Today had been a long day, and it seems like it is no where near being done by the looks and now sounds coming from what you assumed is what’s left of the man you call Jefferson. 

You slide open the door quietly, finding him surrounded by scraps of paper, fabric, and a few broken hats. There’s several manikins that line the wall, sporting rather large dresses, you assume, but they’re covered with large muslin sacks. A dress form stands between you and Jefferson, on it rests a blood red dress. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful dress you’ve ever seen. It has curved, structured straps that wrap around the shoulders that curves into a sweetheart neckline, similar to petals. The skirt is long, layered, and flowing, starting in the same blood red at the hips, but dips into plum just before going black near the bottom. There’s large, handmade rose earrings that are pinned to the top of the dress form. Looking closer at the roses, your breath is taken away as you realize how much they mirror the ones that adorn your chest. 

Looking at the scraps that surround you, you notice they are all in various tones of blood red, plum, and black, occasionally some shreds of navy here and there. There’s papers torn and some charred as if burnt, all with various flower and petal designs on them. You knew he was working on something big for fashion week, but you had no idea he was planning a collection this big, nor with this theme. All this time, he’s been working on something he wouldn’t let you even see sketches for, and now it seems clear why. A sob rips through you before you can suppress it.

Your addition of noise into his chaotic space snaps his attention to you. A tear rolls down your cheek as you take in his blood shot eyes, overly tousled hair, bandaged fingers and hands. 

“Jefferson.” 

You drop the bags of food on the floor, making your way toward him, recklessly pushing fabric out of your way, no longer caring if you step on something important. 

“(Y/N), how did you get in here?”

“You gave me your spare keys, remember? How long have you been up?” You question taking his hands, looking over the cuts and nicks on his poorly bandaged fingers. A silk scarf is tied around his left palm, acting as a make shift bandage. “Let’s clean you up, you know your hands are your best tools. And what happened to the damn sewing machine?” Looking to his face you notice a jagged cut across his cheek, brushing your fingers near it. “What’s this? When did this happen?” 

“I just, uh, you’re not suppose to be here.” His voice turns from confused to whiney. “You’re not supposed to see this. Not like this.”

“Jefferson.” Your voice goes stern, hoping that that will at least get him moving towards some selfcare and sleep. 

“Look,” he stands, taking your hands in his, before he starts rambling. “I love you and I wanted to surprise you with this. I want you to model my main piece that I built the collection around. I want you to walk down the run way wearing it. I made it, all of this for you. And I want you–” 

“I love you too but you can’t do this to yourself!” You almost angrily interject, not noticing the exchange of emotionally fueled words. “It’s not healthy. And I miss you, your regular old fucked up self, not this. When did you last sleep properly? Or eat, have you been eating?” 

“You love me?” 

Jefferson’s breathing picks up, almost going ragged as he stars in awe at you. He moves slowly, almost as if he’s afraid that you’re just a dream. 

“I.. of course I do.”

“Say it again, please.” He whispers, jaw clenching. 

“Jefferson, I love you.” You smile softly, running your fingers through his messed hair, trying to right it again. “Do you doubt that?” 

“I, I don’t know. I just thought maybe it was all in my head, that, that we, whatever we are was too good to be true. I just I..” 

You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, fitting easily under his arms. Jefferson shivers at the contact, finally allowing himself to relax in your embrace. 

“I love you so fucking much, (Y/N). I have for so long.” He whispers into your hair. “I just didn’t want to lose you or push you away.” 

“You know I’m too stubborn for that.” You say, smile pressed to his chest. “But you’re an idiot for over doing it like this.” 

“I want it to be perfect for you.” 

“I’m not perfect, so it doesn’t have to be perfect.” You stare at him stubbornly.

“Okay. I over did it.” His smile returning, nodding towards the dress form. “But do you like your dress?” 

“It’s gorgeous; I can’t believe you made that.”

“It should be easy for you, considering my muse.” As he speaks, he softly brushes his fingers across your collar bones and the roses. “It’s always been you.”


End file.
